


i'm not loving you, the way i wanted to

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, bellamy/clarke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unrelated snippets documenting the fact that Bellamy is basically a huge baby nerd and absolutely head over heels for Clarke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Bellamy and Clarke have an argument, and Bellamy tries to apologise in his typical, roundabout, I-can't-communicate-my-feelings way.

 

“Is that…” Jasper trails off, staring – like almost all of the other 100 are – open-mouthed at Bellamy Blake as he strides purposefully off towards the drop ship, a crown of bright blue flowers clutched tightly in one hand.

His shoulders are drawn to his ears, jaw clenched. He has _that_ expression on his face, the one that can only mean one thing:

Clarke is pissed.

Monty nods absently, his eyes still trailing the one half of their leadership as he makes his way to the proverbial end of the plank. “Yeah. Flower clown.”

“ _Apology_ flower crown.”

“Holy shit,” they chorus.

Octavia and Raven join them, apparently disturbed from their brainstorming session back at the weaponry tent. “What’s going on?” the latter asks lowly, recognizing the thunderous way Bellamy stalks across camp.

“He picked her flowers,” is all Jasper can say, his voice barely above a whisper. “And made them into a crown.”

“A _flower crown?_ ” Raven asks, bewildered.

“Princess. Nice touch,” Monty muses, far too relaxed – as usual.

“I thought he went out to punch-dance his feelings away!”

They all turn to look at Octavia, who shrugs. “What?” she says. “He’s _really_ dramatic.”

“Uh,” Monty assents eventually, “yeah. Alright. But, um, apparently not. Because he has a flower crown.”

“He could’ve done that after the punch-dancing,”

“I don’t know. He usually takes a long time, and it’s only been an hour.”

“So instead of scouting the perimeter like he was supposed to, he’s out … picking daisies? For Clarke?”

Raven snorts. “Who else would they be for?”

They murmur in agreement. “Good point,” Jasper gnaws his lip, “that doesn’t explain _why_ though.”

“Thought he was apologizing?” Octavia shuffles forward for a better look at her brother, who is currently engaged in a strange dance with the drop ship – a one step forward, two steps back type of thing, all performed very angrily.

“For what?”

She shoots Monty an exasperated look, one that screams _duh_ without all the eye rolling. Octavia seems to be especially good at those. “They had a fight this morning.”

“They have a fight _every_ morning.”

She shakes her head. “Bellamy asked if it was her _time of month_.”

Collectively, they hiss. “Damn,” Raven intones, “what a dick.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, she gets mad – yelling, you know – and then Bell’s all _I didn’t mean it like that_ and Clarke doesn’t take his shit, and is like _there’s only one way to mean it_ and from where I was standing? It looked like she was about to cry –”

“Hold on,” Jasper cuts in. “Are you sure they were arguing about the time of month thing? That doesn’t sound like something Clarke’d be on the verge of tears over. Like, she’d probably punch him and then forget about it.”

“You’re right. Did he say something else?” Raven directs this to Octavia.

She frowns. “They were arguing in the tent before. Don’t know about what, though.”

Monty sighs, just as they all spot Bellamy forsake his dance for charging at where Clarke is presumably hiding, saying, “Guess we’re about to find out.”

The door to the drop ship is closed, as it has been since that morning (why didn’t Jasper notice that?), and so they all watch as Bellamy slows his step just marginally (tightening his grip on the flowers, as if hesitating) before pounding his fist against steel.

“Princess!” he bellows. Too harshly. “Open up!”

There’s a pause. Then, “go away, Bellamy,” from within.

“C’mon, Princess. Don’t –” he looks over his shoulder, around the camp, where every single inhabitant stares back at him with unabashed curiosity. He curses quietly to himself. And then, with an accepting sort of sigh, “don’t be mad, OK?”

“You had _no_ right to say those things!”

“I – I know,” Bellamy passes a hand over his eyes, “I was out of line.”

“Damn right you were!”

“Alright, no need to rub it in,” Bellamy says, annoyance crossing over his features.

“ _Rub it in?_ ” comes Clarke’s piercing voice (the one that makes Jasper feel as if he’s disappointed her, his parents, Monty, possibly various Gods from various religions). “ _Rub_ it _in_? You said I wasn’t taking my duties seriously –” at this, there is a collective _ooh_ , “ – and I can rub it in as much as I want!”

“Well – I wasn’t exactly _wrong_ –”

The door to the drop ship jerks the first few inches open, as if Clarke had been standing by the button just _waiting_ for Bellamy to pick up his stubborn foot and jam it into his idiot mouth. Jasper winces. Monty winces. It’s a wave of wincing, all across camp. The Mexican Wince.

It creaks as it goes, slowly filling the surrounding area with its low mechanical hum. The more militant half to their fearless leader duo begins to show the first symptoms of cowering. The door hits the ground, and Clarke steps out. Her expression is nothing short of apoplectic with fury.

“Excuse me?” she asks, lips pressed together and chin jut out in _that_ way, the one that makes everyone take a little step back.

Bellamy doesn’t, which is probably conducive to his impending doom. “I – I said that I wasn’t wrong. Exactly.”

Jasper notes that, the further his chin raises, the lower his life expectancy seems to be, because Clarke takes it as an insult rather than Bellamy just not being able to communicate his feelings effectively.

“Oh?” she raises an eyebrow, suddenly somewhat agreeable. “How’s that?”

This is, possibly, the most dangerous stage of Clarke’s anger – the mock-sweetness, the _yes please tell me more_ before she picks up a gun and starts advancing. It’s not a request for Bellamy to clarify; it’s a last chance for him to take it back.

But, of course, he doesn’t. _You gotta be the biggest idiot on this side of the planet,_ Jasper thinks. _Apologise!_ Bellamy doesn’t hear his telepathic warning, though. A genetic fault that they’ll all suffer for, he’s sure.

“You spend too much time with the Grounder’s _diary,_ ” Bellamy spits, almost crushing the flowers in his grip, “for a start.”

“Well _sorry_ for trying to learn what I can! There’s medicinal herbs in there, Bell! Important things!”

“ _Bell?_ ” Octavia mouths to Raven, who shrugs.

“How do you know they’re not traps?”

“You’re being _ridiculous_ –”

“At least I’m doing my job –”

“Don’t you dare, Bellamy – what’re _those_?” Clarke directs, sharply, at the flower crown in his grip.

He immediately hides it behind his back. “Nothing.”

Clarke’s mouth dips down at the corners like she’s trying to hide a grin, and she dodges to the left to try and get a better look. Bellamy retreats, scowling. “Are they for me?”

“No,” he replies gruffly, trying to evade her grabby hands.

“Bellamy, stop being an ass and give me my flowers.”

“It’s a _crown_ –”

Clarke stops in her pursuit, surprise etched over her pretty features. “You made me a flower crown?”

“I don’t have time for that shit.” Bellamy says sourly.

“They’re your favourites!” Monty calls, obstructively (at least, according to Bellamy’s scorching glare he throws in his direction).

Unfortunately, for their esteemed 50% of the holy duo, his attention is diverted for a moment too long and Clarke can be eerily nifty when she wants to be. The flower crown (in all its crumpled glory) is deposited on her head in two seconds flat, and their resident Princess has her coronation.

Everyone (excluding Bellamy) cheers.

///

Clarke wears the flower crown all day. Bellamy grumbles for the entirety of dinner (and probably eternity – Bellamy would grumble through the time-space continuum if he could). Even when she’s sitting next to him while they eat, he pouts and looks sullen.

Although – when the firelight catches the blue of Clarke’s crown in a certain way, Jasper can see him glance hopefully at her out the corner of his eye. But he could be imagining that.

What he can’t put down to his – admittedly, very overactive – imagination is the way Clarke squeezes Bellamy’s knee when she thinks nobody is looking, nor can he ignore the uncharacteristically soft smile she is graced with as a result.

 


	2. Piggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke hurts her ankle.

It was  _supposed_ to be a routine perimeter check. A simple, thirty-minute walk to make sure everything was running smoothly, Grounder-wise.

But, of course, things go wrong. Why? Because Clarke  _fucking_ Griffin, that’s why. So long as she’s around, Bellamy will never ever be able to just … chill.

“My ankle’s not that bad,” she tells him now, hot breath washing over the back of his neck. “You don’t have to carry me.” 

He shivers, straightening up. Fucking Princess and her fucking mouth. Fuck. “I’m not letting you hop back to camp.”

“That’s really sweet but –”

He chokes out an indignant snort. “It’s not for  _you,_ Princess. It’s just quicker this way.”

Clarke goes kind of quiet, and he possibly feels some sort of regret at his brusque tone ( _possibly_ ), but then about two seconds later she’s laughing at him, so. “Sure it is, Bell.”

He grunts, hoists her higher on his back because she’s not gripping him with her thighs hard enough – and there goes his imagination, he’d been wondering when that would crop up,  _fuck_ – sighs. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” she asks, innocently.

“Making fun of me. I could drop you, y’know.”

“You would  _not._ ”

“I would.”

“OK,” Clarke relents, but there’s  _that_ tone in her voice that warns him she’s about to follow up with some teasing remark, “but you’d have to make, like,  _three_ flower crowns to make up for it.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Bellamy grunts, and loosens his grip for a moment.

More regret, mixed with thoughts of  _ohmygodshit,_ because she squeals and clings to him tightly as a result and her breasts are most definitely pressed up against his back, now. And her thighs are most definitely … gripping.

“Bellamy!” she scolds, kind of breathlessly, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

Stupid fucking Clarke Griffin and her stupid fucking pretty voice. Jesus. She also has really muscular legs, which is – of course, because the universe detests his mere existence and is seeking to punish him in the worst ways possible – really, really great. Like,  _really_ great.

“We’re almost there,” he says gruffly, and tries to march in the direction of the front gate, but it’s difficult when someone’s got their arms cinched around his neck. “Can you loosen up on the arms, Princess? Kinda choking me here.”

“Sorry,” she says. She loops one under his left armpit, the other coming over his shoulder to clasp on his chest. “That better?”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “’S like you don’t even know appropriate piggy back protocol.”

Clarke snorts. “And you’re the expert, right?”

“How d’you think I kept Octavia busy for the first fifteen years of her life?”

A laugh, now, nice and clear and bright. It’s directly in his ear, enough for him to need to bite his lip to keep from joining her.

“I have a hard time picturing that. Bellamy Blake, babysitter extraordinaire.”

He lets himself grin; tightening the grip he has around her knees. “I’m good with kids.”

“I know,” she murmurs, “it’s kind of adorable.”

Bellamy turns his head to frown at her. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you just say –”

“No.”

“I think you did.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“The Princess thinks I’m adorable,” he muses, smirking, “must be my lucky day.”

“You tell a soul, Bellamy, and I will  _kill_  you.”

“But what would you do without me? Who would be your main source of adorable?”

She groans in exasperation, unclasping her hands momentarily to swat lightly at his chest. The movement makes her slip, just a little, but he lets go of her knee to grab her wrist anyway.

“OK?” he asks.

“’M  _fine._ ”

“Sure?” he checks. She sounds kind of … jostled. “Princess?”

“I’m all good, Bell. And I’d have Jasper.”

“Huh?”

“If I killed you. My main source of adorable would be Jasper.”

Bellamy nods. It seems like the logical choice: the kid does have moon eyes. “I thought you’d choose Spacewalker, to be honest.”

Her wrist flexes, for a second. He realises he hasn’t let go. And continues to not. Let go, that is. “He’s not cute to me anymore.”

“Good. He’s an ass.”

Clarke just nestles in further, her mouth pressed to the back of his head. He hopes he hasn’t gotten any gross shit in his hair recently, and –  _what the fuck._ Bellamy scowls. He doesn’t care if the Princess gets her lips dirty.

_Don’t think about that. Don’t fucking think about that._

“Should we go?”

“Yeah, sure. Hold on, Princess.”

They manage to get to the camp in relative quiet, Clarke only breaking it every now and then to point out useful improvements they could make to the perimeter, Bellamy replying with a thoughtful grunt and a few ‘maybe’s. He likes that about her; their silences aren’t awkward.

As expected, people stare when he walks through the gate with Princess on his back. Monty and Jasper appear out of seemingly nowhere, crowing  _ayyyyyy_ until he cuts them off with a glare. Raven’s raised eyebrow can be seen from a mile away. Finn glowers. That’s probably the only part of it that pleases him.

“Octavia!” Clarke calls, already issuing orders. “My ankle’s bust. We need to bind it up.”

“Your ankle’s hurt?” Miller asks, concerned.

“Why’d you think I was carrying her?”

He shrugs. “Maybe she was tired.”

Bellamy bristles, for some reason. “I don’t  _carry_ people because they’re  _tired –_ ”

“Uhuh,” Monroe breaks in, smirking. “hey Blake, my toes are hurting. Can I get a piggy back to my tent?”

“I hate every single one of you,” he hisses. “I’m not a fucking transport system.”

“Bell,” Clarke tugs on his hair, oblivious, “take me to the drop ship.”

He pauses for a moment, Monroe and Miller both grinning at him expectantly. Clarke digs her heels into his sides, like he’s a fucking horse or some shit. “C’mon,” she tells him, wriggling. “ _Bellamy._ ”

“ _Fine._ ” He seethes, and sets off.

Their guffaws follow him to the drop ship.

 _Fucking_  Clarke Griffin and the shit he does for her. God fucking damnit.

“I am never doing that again,” he tells her, when her ankle is all strapped up. They're sitting together in the medical bay, Clarke leaning on him for support at his insistence. Even though they're not standing. Shut up.

“Uhuh,” she replies mockingly.

“I’m  _not._ ”

“OK, Bell.”

“I mean it.”

“Alright.”

“No piggy backs for  _anyone._ ”

“Sure. Can you take me to Jasper? I need to check on his shoulder, he hurt it yesterday.”

“… Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the lovely feedback on the last chapter! You guys are all so nice and welcoming. It was my first time writing for this particular fandom so it was a really great feeling :)


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